


Paper Hearts

by TriplePirouette



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, F/M, Gen, Tissue Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27732253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriplePirouette/pseuds/TriplePirouette
Summary: Steve gets some of his belongings back from the Smithsonian after the end of The First Avenger.
Relationships: Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	Paper Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the Tumblr post I've screenshot below. I'm assuming original credit goes to "Antique Store's Drawer" but I'm happy to amend this if anyone knows differently. I saw that post and I HAD to write this. I always thought Peggy's picture looked too good in the modern timeline. I guess you'd call this my fix-it.
> 
> Image can be found here: https://3pirouette.tumblr.com/post/635899001011585024

The box from the Smithsonian wasn’t much. His things had all been kept, first by the Army, then by the Smithsonian. It had been unnervingly difficult to get his own things back, despite showing up in person. 

He guessed they’d never really run into that situation before. 

He set the footlocker down on the table, but instead of opening it right away he paced back and forth. He wasn’t sure exactly what was in there anymore, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to see any of it. 

He was still reeling. It had been mere weeks for him, for the rest of the world it had been decades. He’d fallen asleep and woken up 70 years later. The world had moved on and he’d lost everything. 

Everything. 

He didn’t know where he fit in anymore, didn’t know what he was expected to do under Nicky Fury, but he knew it at least gave him some sort of purpose. 

He paced back to the trunk and flicked the clasp open. 

It smelt old; musty. 

He felt young, though he knew he belonged in this trunk just like the yellowed books. He pulled them out, one at a time. Some strategy books, a few novels, a couple of pamphlets the US Army put out. 

He pulled out the folded clothes, knowing that at least a handful of historians had folded and unfolded them since he’d last touched them. The Smithsonian had kept his dress uniform, and he’d happily given them permission. He didn’t need to wear it anymore, and it meant little to him. The few underthings and shirts and slacks and errant socks didn’t change how he felt, he was still uneasy going through all of it, and none of it settled his anxiety. 

He pulled out a set of binoculars and his old leather jacket. A sketchbook he’d politely asked for back was almost bent out of shape by how they’d been displaying his sketch of a battlefield. He gently turned the pages, past the dancing monkey to the side profile sketches of the commandos and that one face, the face he’d been seeing in his dreams. 

He set the fragile pages down quickly, knowing he wasn’t ready for that particular road. 

A handful of letters, each in a plastic bag, notated and stored for posterity were next. There weren’t many, he hadn’t had many people to write. 

He didn’t acknowledge the thought that flitted through his head that he had no one now. 

At the bottom was another plastic bag, this one with a newspaper page in it. He lifted it carefully and knew exactly what it was. Yellowed with age, it had seen better days. He sat, carefully opening the plastic bag and pulling the more modern pages out. 

The first was a type-written document, categorizing the relic. 

Description: Newspaper page from April 11, 1944, circular cut made around the face of a woman, face is missing. The Daily Telegraph, first edition, page 16. 

The second page, wrapped in vellum, was a modern re-printing of the newspaper page. He wasn’t ready to see her face, but she stared at him as he pulled the vellum back, challenging him, supporting him, surprising him, just as she’d done in life. 

His breath caught in his throat and he leaned back in his chair, hand coming to his mouth. He hadn’t been ready to see her face, hadn’t had another copy of her picture. 

He pulled his compass out of his pocket, flicking it open. It had only needed a little oil at the hinges and what one of the scientists at SHIELD called “a bit of a tune up” after being in the ice for so long, but her picture… her picture had slowly started to yellow and crack, to fade and degrade after so long. When he’d first opened it he’d been disappointed to see it start to crumble, the newspaper clipping no match for the elements. 

He’d kept the degraded circle of paper, even carefully applied a thin layer of tape to try to keep it from falling apart further…

…but her image was only a memory. 

Looking at it now he knew the black lines and smudges weren’t a portrait, weren’t a picture. His mind had filled her face in, had supplied her picture from memory every time he popped the compass open. 

He held it tight in his hands, breath coming harsh and on the verge of tears for long moments. All at once, he stood, determined. He clasped the compass in his hands and went over to the brand new box of art tools he’d picked up yesterday. 

He was trying to rebuild his life, even if it felt like everything was crumbling like that picture. 

He pulled the tiny razor from the kit and headed back to the table. He set his compass on the table and gently opened it, pulling the piece of crumbling paper from inside. 

Without pulling the yellowing page of newspaper from it’s bag, he set the missing circle back in place, the wear and tear making it seem eerie against the still bright ink of the rest of Peggy’s body and the war department propaganda article around her. 

He laid a hand on it, breathing for a second. It felt like a loss, but everything these days did. 

After a long pause, he turned to the almost modern newspaper, her image bright and clear before him. He set the compass over her face and carefully slipped the razor along the compass’s edge, turning it in a bit to give it room to fit. 

It felt like déjà vu, but he knew he’d done this only months, in reality decades, ago. He set the razor down and gently pried the circle of paper from its page and slipped it in his compass. 

The moment it settled he somehow felt a little more whole. A little more right. 

For a second, when he snapped it closed and open, things felt just a little normal. 

He needed that right now. 

He turned, setting the compass and her picture in the center of his table, his things set all around him. He looked at what his life boiled down to, save a few more knick knacks housed at the Smithsonian, and frowned. He set his hands one on top of the other, and leaned forward, his chin on his knuckles. 

A tear slipped down his cheek. He wasn’t ready to know. He wasn’t ready to find out that she’d died. Or that she’d moved on. Or that she’d never forgotten him. He couldn’t face it. Not yet. 

When he stared at her, just like all those years ago, everything felt just a little simpler. 

He’d indulge in it for now. 

Another tear fell, and he didn’t try to wipe it away. 


End file.
